


Things We Left Behind

by blueberryphancakes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Director!phil, Friends With Benefits, Happy Ending, M/M, Moving Out, POV Second Person, Reality, Set in the year 2020, Smut, radio host!dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7428983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryphancakes/pseuds/blueberryphancakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that you expected to live with him forever; you simply forgot that ‘not forever’ meant ‘someday it will end.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things We Left Behind

All in all, the whole thing is a lot less dramatic than you expected.

Years ago, when your friendship with Phil was relatively new and you still relied on each other to maintain your rapidly growing audience, you spent more time than you should have imagining everything going up in flames. There was still the matter of your crush and possibly his, the pull towards each other lying dormant in your chests and waiting to blow up in your faces with every awkward glance and poorly-timed comment by a stranger on the internet. And even if you could ignore that like you planned, there was no guarantee that your friendship would withstand becoming flatmates.

But living together was surprisingly easy. Ignoring old feelings was less so, but those, too, faded with time. Eventually, you settled into such a comfortable routine that you forgot about the screaming matches and silent treatments you used to envision as the end of your friendship with Phil. It wasn’t that you expected to live with him forever; you simply forgot that ‘not forever’ meant ‘someday it will end.’

That all changed a few months ago. Since the day Phil told you about the job offer in Hollywood, your fears have come back three-fold.

Which is why it’s strange when Phil says goodbye as though he is leaving on holiday and will be back soon. He wraps you in a tight hug and tells you not to burn down the flat, and you chuckle half-heartedly and tell him that there will be fewer fire hazards without his candles, and he agrees and pats you on the back before pulling away. And then he just grabs his suitcase, offers you a small wave that you don’t return, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

You’re going to call each other every day. Skype at least once a week. Text as often as physically possible. That’s the plan.

He calls you the second he lands in L.A. You let it ring five seconds longer than necessary, both because you need some time to get your heartrate under control and because you don’t want him to know that you’ve been staring at your phone almost nonstop for the last hour.

“Hey,” you say when you finally pick up.

The line crackles for a bit before you hear a tinny “ _hi_.”

“How was your flight?”

“ _Fine. Er, good. Yeah. It was good_.”

“No travel sickness?”

“ _No, not really. It was pretty…er…smooth._ ”

“Oh. That’s…that’s good.”

“ _Yeah._ ”

You rack your brain for something else to say. Surely, there must be something that will get the conversation going. Eleven years ago, you used to be able to talk on the phone with him for hours without even trying, and that was before you even met him. Before you knew him better than you know yourself.

On second thought, maybe that’s the problem.

“ _I’d better get going,_ ” he says all of a sudden. You wonder how long you’ve both been silent, phones pressed to your ears, just listening to the other breathe. “ _My cab’s here._ ”

You feel like there is probably some sarcastic remark you should make right now, but you don’t know what it is. “Okay,” you tell him. “Talk to you tomorrow?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” he says. And then the line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

The little changes are the hardest.

You might be able to forget about the echoing quiet, ignore the places where Phil usually sits and stands and leans, if it weren’t for the stupid little reminders that Phil is gone for good. You don’t think much of the way you automatically take a wide step over that one spot in the lounge until you remember that that’s where Phil’s laptop charger often lies. You wonder why the place looks so tidy until you realise that Phil’s socks aren’t lying on the coffee table or in the hall or on the bathroom floor. You think that cereal might be a good breakfast until you open the box and see that it is just as full as it was last time you closed it.

You are honestly glad that Phil, with his absentmindedness and stubborn refusal to make a packing list, forgot a few things. A pair of headphones draped over a chair in the kitchen, a dozen or so DVDs on the shelf in the lounge, a few t-shirts in your own drawer that you have borrowed so often that you almost text back that you are keeping them. It’s probably pathetic that you sleep in the Nyan Cat shirt the night after Phil leaves, but it’s your last chance to do so before taking it to the post office the next morning, so you grant yourself the one silly consolation and make sure to wash the shirt in the morning.

Soon, of course, the shirts and the DVDs and the headphones are gone, and you are the only thing remaining that Phil left behind.

 

* * *

 

The rent in London really is too high, especially when you’re paying for more bedrooms than you technically need. Not that the radio station isn’t paying you more than enough to cover it. It just seems wasteful, is all.

You think about this as you arrive at work, grabbing two Styrofoam cups and preparing two coffees — one black, one with milk and sugar — before you realise what you are doing.

You offer the extra coffee to the first intern you see. You can’t remember his name, but he’s young and fresh-faced, and you’re pretty sure he idolises you. His eyes light up when you hand him the cup, and you can only hope that he won’t take it as an invitation to get to know you. He won’t look up to you for much longer if he does, of that you’re certain.

 

* * *

 

Phil is doing well in America, and you wish that made things better.

You aren’t lying when you tell him you’re happy for him, have been happy for him since the day you both found out that his dreams of directing real films would finally be coming true. And it isn’t as if you don’t have your own projects going. Being a fulltime radio host for the BBC is a great job, one that suits your lifestyle and provides you with more than enough money to pay for the two-bedroom flat that you live in alone. Looking back, your younger self would have never believed you would be lucky enough to have such a cool job and still be able to afford food.

So you’re happy for Phil, and you’re happy with your job.

But you would be lying if you said you were just plain happy.

 

* * *

 

The intern’s name is Jeremy, and he has taken to bringing you coffee on an every-other-workday basis. You start doing the same for him out of politeness. It isn’t a bad system. You would be fine with it if he hadn’t decided that ‘coffee time’ was also ‘pester Dan time.’

“So why did Phil leave?” It’s the third day in a row that he has brought up your former co-host, and he still hasn’t taken your vague, grumbled answers as a sign to drop the subject. He sips his too-sweet coffee from atop your desk, swinging his legs back and forth and brushing his fringe from his eyes. His hair is sleek and black like Phil’s used to be, but that’s where the similarities end.

“He got a different job.”

“Doing what?”

“Directing.”

“What, like movies?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, that is so cool! What kind of movies? Do you get to go on set?”

“No, I don’t get to go on set,” you say, ignoring his first question.

“How come? Oh, is it like some super top-secret movie thing? Like, is it part of a big franchise? Blink twice if it rhymes with ‘larval.’”

You blink, but just once.

Jeremy tilts his head, legs pausing their incessant kicking. “Does that mean I’m close?”

You close your eyes and draw in a deep breath, reminding yourself that it isn’t the kid’s fault your life is falling apart. True, he’s the one who keeps bringing up the subject you’d most like to avoid, but that isn’t his fault either. He doesn’t know.

“I don’t go on set because it’s too far away. Phil’s new job is in Hollywood.”

Jeremy’s eyes go wide. He looks like he is about to enthuse about how cool that is, but he stops himself short. “Wait, but weren’t you guys, like, living together?”

“We were.”

“And now?”

“We’re not.”

Jeremy frowns. It might be the first time you’ve ever seen him do that. His next question surprises you.

“What’s he like?”

“You met him, didn’t you?”

Jeremy shakes his head. “Not really. He left about a week after I started. I never even spoke to him. He always seemed kinda quiet though. When he wasn’t on the radio, that is.”

“He is.” You look from your hands, which have been tapping a rhythm against your coffee cup, to Jeremy’s dark, curious eyes, staring at you expectantly. You sigh. “Even once Phil gets to know someone, he prefers listening to talking. He _can_ talk quite a bit, of course, but he usually has to prepare for it. He always spent way more time preparing his scripts than I did.”

“So why’d he get into radio, if talking is so hard for him?”

You dig your thumbnail into the cup, drawing zigzags in the Styrofoam while you try to decide where to start and how much to tell him. He seems genuinely curious, not like someone trying to snap up details to sell to the media. Just a nosy, excitable kid. He is the same age you were when you met Phil, you remember suddenly, which means he would have been seven back in 2009. That may be even stranger than the fact that you’re now pushing thirty.

“He liked making people happy,” you say, deciding to keep it simple. It’s been a long time since you and Phil were more famous for YouTube than you were for radio anyway. And it’s not like it isn’t true. “He had a way of brightening people’s days, even when he wasn’t feeling so great himself. Radio helped him do that. He just wanted to spread his positivity as far as he could.”

Jeremy nods. You think he might be satisfied with your answers and leave you alone to get ready for the show, but then he asks, “Any reason why you’ve slipped into the past tense?”

 

* * *

 

Six days after Phil moves to California, he texts you to say that he is busy with meetings and can’t call you that day.

Part of you is relieved that you don’t have to spend half an hour trying to come up with something to say that isn’t ‘I miss you’ or ‘the flat is too quiet without you’ or ‘please come home.’ You are glad this part exists, because it almost allows you to believe yourself when you text back that it’s fine, and that you understand, and that you will talk to him soon.

Another part of you — the part that knew this would happen but didn’t expect it to happen so soon — causes you to stay awake all night, tossing and turning, clutching your phone just in case he calls.

 

* * *

 

“Who do you live with now?”

You don’t even have to look up from your notes to know who said it. You hold out your hand to accept your coffee and try not to let your annoyance show. “Nobody.”

“That sounds lonely,” Jeremy says, taking his usual seat on the edge of your desk. He starts to take a sip of his own coffee but stops short. “That was rude, wasn’t it?”

“It’s fine.”

“No.” He puts a hand on your wrist so you can’t drink your coffee either. He pulls back almost immediately. “S-sorry,” he says, deep red dusting his olive cheeks. “I know I ask too many questions. And provide a lot of unwanted input. I’m sorry. Nervous habit.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Why are you nervous?”

“Well…” He waves his cup in the air in some sort of vague gesture, and a little bit of coffee sloshes onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Well,” he tries again, “you’re _you._ And I’m…I’m just…”

“An intern?” you supply.

“Nobody,” he corrects. He doesn’t sound particularly upset about it. You wonder if he’s just used to hiding his insecurities by shrugging them off.

It shouldn’t tug at your heart, but it does.

“For nobody, you seem to show up at my desk a lot.”

“For somebody with a reputation as a curmudgeon, you’ve kicked me out of your office surprisingly few times.”

You wonder how long you’ve had that reputation. Probably since Phil left. Or maybe, because Phil was the only one you ever socialised with, people simply expected it of you.

You wish you could add it to the growing pile of expectations you didn’t meet.

“Do you think you’ll ever get another flatmate?” Jeremy asks, snapping you out of your reverie.

You stare at him.

“Sorry.” He ducks his head. “I’m doing it again.”

“Stop apologising,” you tell him, because you don’t know what else to say. You glance at your watch. “I have to get ready for the show.”

Jeremy nods and hops down from your desk, draining the last of his coffee as he does so. He pours it down his throat like it’s alcohol and then, with seemingly renewed confidence, turns to you and squares his shoulders. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but since you’re kicking me out, I’ll say it anyway. You’re lonely. And no matter how hard you try to disguise that as anger, it shows, and it won’t go away until you do something about it.” He tosses the empty cup at your bin, misses, picks it up again. “I think you should get a new flatmate. And stop worrying whether or not they’ll replace Phil. They won’t. But they might just drag you out of your own head long enough for you to stop moping over him.”

And with that, he throws his cup away and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Even when you and Phil do talk, you only end up feeling lonelier. You put off Skyping day after day, and when you finally do it, the nostalgia leaves such an ache in your chest that you never mention it again. Luckily, neither does he.

After a few weeks, you start making excuses so you don’t have to call him. After a few months, you stop calling altogether.

 

* * *

 

You consider taking Jeremy’s advice.

You don’t consider it for long.

 

* * *

 

You start making a point of stepping on the spot where Phil’s computer charger used to lie. By the time he comes to London for his first visit, it’s almost second nature.

You have to buzz him in, which is weird. You meet him at the door, and he greets you with a tired smile. He looks older, and that’s weird too because it’s only been four months since you last saw him.

(Maybe it’s because, when you think of Phil, you think of a lively twenty-two-year-old with shaggy black fringe and a sparkle in his eye, not a mature thirty-three-year-old with a greying auburn quiff and crow’s feet. He’s looked this way for a while, you realise. You just didn’t notice him growing older because you were too busy growing older beside him).

After an awkward hug, he follows you inside. He crosses the lounge hanging on your heels, and you’re so distracted by his warmth radiating on the back of your neck that you forget not to step over the spot. Phil probably doesn’t notice, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“So,” you say, plopping onto the sofa. “How’s America?”

He sits down a little farther away than he used to. “Fine.” He nods as though assuring himself that it is true. “It’s great.”

“Great,” you echo.

And then the room falls into silence.

You twiddle your thumbs. He checks something on his phone, expression neutral.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask after a moment.

And that’s how the two of you end up watching Kill Bill for probably the dozenth time while sitting rigidly on opposite sides of the sofa. You’re sort of glad he didn’t want to watch anything new; there’s no hope of you paying attention anyway. Even with the wide distance between you, his presence is too much in a way it hasn’t been since you first met.

The movie drags on for what feels like hours. The banter you and Phil usually exchange is notably absent. Neither of you even laughs.

Phil yawns, and you snap back to attention long enough to realise the film isn’t even halfway over.

“I’m pretty jetlagged,” he says. “Save the rest for tomorrow?”

You nod and pause the film, hoping he’ll forget about it and you won’t have to sit through this again the next day.

He goes straight to his old bedroom, and something pangs in your chest. You’ve only been in there once since he left, and that was to put new sheets on what you now refer to as the guest bed. He doesn’t belong there, you think crazily, even though it used to be his room and he is technically your guest. If anyone belongs there, he does.

Maybe you just wish he belonged there permanently.

He stops in the doorway, duffel bag clutched in one hand and doorknob in the other. “Goodnight,” he almost whispers, head bowed so he doesn’t have to look at you. And then he goes into the room that isn’t his anymore and closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

You were supposed to use your time apart to get over him. He was going to go to America, and you were going to stay here, and you were going to find a way to maintain your friendship while simultaneously convincing yourself that friendship was all you wanted. That was the plan.

Really, you never should have had anything to get over in the first place, and throughout the years you lived together, you almost convinced yourself that you didn’t. The second he told you he was thinking of leaving, you encouraged him to go. Not just because you wanted him to follow his dreams, but because nine years really is too long to live with a platonic best friend, even one who was almost something more once. Part of you was actually glad when he left, as you weren’t sure you could make it ten without addressing some topics you had been avoiding for far too long.

Before he came to visit, you thought you had been making progress. You were unhappy, sure, but you were coping. You were going to work every day that you were expected to do so, and you managed to get out of bed on most of your days off. You never stopped texting him to see how he was doing, even when it hurt, even when you couldn’t bring yourself to listen to his voice anymore because it always reopened the slowly-healing wound in your chest.

Now that he’s here, sleeping just a wall away like he did for almost a third of your life, the wound is bigger than ever.

You flip from your stomach to your side and reach for your phone. The display tells you that it is nearly three in the morning. You open your Tumblr app for all of ten seconds, closing it the first time you run across a gif of Phil from the old days. You place your phone back on your nightstand and throw the covers off your body, falling back on old habits as you stand and begin pacing around the room.

You’ve only walked to the other side of the room and back twice when the door creaks open, a sliver of light spilling in from the hall. It illuminates Phil from behind as he peeps his head in, hair sticking up in every direction, glasses sliding down his nose.

“You either, huh?” He doesn’t wait for a response before letting himself in. “No offense, but those sheets you bought are sort of scratchy.”

“Sorry,” you say, though you aren’t. How can you be, if that’s what brought him here? “Mine are pretty comfortable, if you wanted…” you trail off, gesturing to the bed awkwardly. You honestly didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did.

Phil doesn’t seem bothered. He climbs into your bed without hesitation and holds the duvet up for you to crawl in next to him. You do, lying on your back as close to the edge as you can get. You stare at the ceiling, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“Dan,” he says softly. He touches your shirtless waist. If you flinch, it’s only because his hands are cold. “Come here.”

You obey, maybe a little too quickly. Rolling onto your side brings you face to face with him, and suddenly you can’t bear to be so far away. You scoot as close as possible and bury your face in his t-shirt. It smells like it always has. Like raspberry soap and aftershave and Phil.

He wraps his arms around you, and those feel the same too, just as smooth and gangly as ever. You feel a light pressure on top of your head, just for a second, and you realise he kissed you there.

The wound in your chest bursts wide open.

You lift your head and bring your lips to meet his without thinking. He must have been ready for it, because no time at all passes before he is kissing you back. Your lips part on instinct, and even though it has been nearly a decade since the two of you did this, you think he must not have changed his toothpaste brand during that time, because he tastes the same as ever.

He rolls you over and straddles your hips. It’s only then that you realise your eyes have been closed the whole time. You open them to find Phil gazing down at you, hair falling in his eyes. In the dim, yellow light, you can’t tell that it isn’t black anymore.

He presses his mouth against yours once more, just for a few seconds, before dragging it over your jaw and down your neck. You gasp when he kisses the juncture of your neck and shoulder, feather-light and fleeting, so unlike the bruises he used to suck there in your youth. For some reason, this affects you even more.

You grip his shoulders as he moves to your collarbone, kissing one side and then the other before trailing his lips straight down your chest and stomach. He skips your nipples, you notice, and you wonder why. Maybe he forgot that playing with those always drove you crazy.

You’re half-hard by the time he makes it to your boxers. He looks at you through his eyelashes as his thumbs brush your hipbones. The look is more pleading than seductive, you think.

“Do you want this?” he asks. As if you would say anything but yes. As if you could.

You nod to reassure him even as you dig your fingers into the waistband of your boxers and push them down your thighs. He removes them the rest of the way, carefully sliding them past your calves and over your feet before tossing them on the floor. His t-shirt soon joins them, but he leaves his pyjama bottoms on. He brings his face level with your crotch again, opens his mouth, and is just about to lower himself when you place a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Wait.” He looks up at you with confusion and maybe a little hurt, but he stills his movement. He waits as you open your bedside drawer and fumble around until you find the items you’re looking for. You hold them up. “Will you? Can we do it like this?”

He takes the bottle and the foil package from your hand, staring down at them. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know.”

“Not just with you,” he clarifies. “I…Dan, you were the last person…” he trails off, biting his lip. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’m sure.” You are. You know you might regret it later, but right now, you’ve never been surer of anything in your life.

Phil exhales shakily through his nose, fingers trembling as he slides his pyjamas down his legs and then tears open the condom wrapper. He rolls the condom onto his length slowly before popping the cap on the lube. “We’ll go slow, okay?”

You nod, secretly wishing he wouldn’t. You don’t mind things rough. A quick, hard fuck tends to lead to the kind of pain that numbs your mind and leaves you too exhausted to want more. Somehow, it’s the slow, gentle sex that always ends up hurting you most.

You lean back on your elbows and watch as he opens you up one finger at a time, always making sure you’re okay before adding another. You’re about to break your self-imposed ‘no begging’ rule when he finally draws them out, slicking himself up again for good measure before pressing in slowly.

You clench around him, and he spends far too long waiting for you to acclimate before pressing in farther. He kisses your chin as he bottoms out, and you close your eyes and break your rule. “Move. Please.”

He kisses you again before pulling out, just a little. You feel him wrap his hand around you as he pushes back in, ever considerate, ever breaking your heart.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall apart, thighs shaking as you wrap them around his hips. You throw your head back into your pillow, and you feel his hips stutter. You come seconds before he does, biting your tongue so you don’t shout his name. Or worse.

When it’s over, he reaches down and plucks his shirt off the floor, using it to clean you up before tending to his own needs. You want to yell at him, but you don’t.

He then removes his condom and ties it off, tossing it across the room and missing the bin completely. He gets up to throw it away properly, and you almost laugh because you can’t help but think of Jeremy and that stupid coffee cup.

Your stomach sinks. Jeremy is eighteen years old, and you’re pretty sure even he could have seen that this was a bad idea.

All thoughts of your mistake fade as Phil climbs back into bed and drapes an arm over your waist. You scoot back against him, letting yourself be held, and you find that you are suddenly tired.

You let your mind be carried away with the rhythm of Phil’s chest rising and falling against your back. Your last thought before you drift off is that you can already tell it’s going to be the best sleep you’ve had in months.

 

* * *

 

You wake up feeling cold.

You know, even before you open your eyes, that the other side of the bed is empty.

 

* * *

 

Phil had to go back to America early due to some sort of film-related emergency. At least, that’s what the note he leaves on your nightstand says.

You read it twice before crumpling it up and throwing it away.

You were supposed to go to work today, had plans to take Phil to the station to reconnect with his former coworkers, show him how you’ve redecorated your office, maybe even introduce him to Jeremy. Instead, you call in sick. You don’t even have to lie.

You spend the entire day in bed, clinging to your pillow, trying not to think about how it won’t smell like raspberries for much longer.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t mean anything.

That’s what you tell yourself over and over, every time you almost forget. It didn’t mean anything. It never meant anything.

You do the math, and you realise that it’s been almost ten years to the day since the last time you and he did what you did last night, back when you were in university and he first presented the possibility of living together the following year. At the time, you agreed that moving in together would be one too many complications to add to your already complicated best-friends-with-occasional-benefits relationship. Ten years of friendship and denial followed. Ten of the best years of your life.

It should have been enough.

But of course it wasn’t, because you can never be satisfied with the good things you have, and now you’ve ruined a decade’s worth of progress. All for one night that didn’t mean anything, couldn’t mean anything, will never mean anything.

You repeat the mantra to yourself as you spend a sleepless day and night in bed. It still rings in your ears as you drag yourself to work the next day.

If it meant something, you remind yourself again, he would have stayed.

 

* * *

 

“You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Your head shoots up. You glare at the teenager standing in your doorway. “How could you possibly know that?”

“You said Phil was going to be in town, yesterday you called in sick, and now you’re here, looking healthy as ever, if a little more sleep-deprived.” He holds out your coffee. You ignore it, so he sets it on your desk. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you two were probably doing all day.”

“Phil wasn’t in town yesterday.”

Jeremy cocks his head to the side. “I thought you said—”

“He was,” you interject. “He left early.”

“Oh.” He blinks and sets his coffee down next to yours. “ _Oh._ ”

You nod, running your hands through your hair. “Oh indeed.”

“Is there anything I can—”

“No.” You don’t miss the hurt that flashes across his face. You shift your gaze to the cups in front of you so you don’t have to see it. “Just…just leave, if you will. I don’t feel like talking today.”

“Sure,” he says, grabbing his coffee and skittering to the door. His movements are hurried, but his voice is sure as he says, “If you ever decide you want to open up about all the shit going on in your head, you know where to find me.”

 

* * *

 

You don’t hear from Phil for a long time after the night of his visit, not even through text. You only know that he’s alive because he still posts the occasional tweet. You sort of hate him for continuing to talk to his millions of followers when he refuses to talk to you. Except you don’t, because you can’t.

(Besides, it’s not like you’ve tried to get in touch with him either).

Nearly a month passes before his name lights up your phone screen again. It’s a simple text telling you that filming is finally done and that they are moving on to post-production. You reply with a ‘congrats’ and a single smiling emoji. It isn’t much, but when he later posts a selfie with the cast on Twitter, you can’t help but be glad that he told you first.

 

* * *

 

The texts start to come more frequently, once or twice a week at first, and then almost every day. He hardly ever says anything in them — it’s always an animal video here, a picture of his breakfast there — but you’ll take what you can get. Jeremy has even caught you smiling at your screen a time or two.

Sometimes you respond with an emoji, maybe a quick message telling him which part of a video you liked.

You never text him first.

Until one day, when you’re actually making dinner for once instead of ordering out or scrounging around for leftovers. The television is on in the lounge, tuned in to no channel in particular, just to fill the flat with noise. You’re chopping carrots and paying the sounds little mind when you hear dramatic music. For some reason, it catches your attention.

You put down your knife and walk into the lounge. There’s an action sequence on the screen featuring actors who look familiar but whose names you can’t place. It doesn’t hit you until the very end, when the title flashes on the screen followed by a list of names. It’s small and only there for a split second, not long enough for most people to read it, but you notice it immediately.

_Directed by Phil Lester._

Your heart swells with pride, and you pull your phone out of your pocket without a second thought.

> **GUESS WHAT I JUST SAW**

You pause, then erase the text. You’re too old for guessing games.

> **PHIL THE PREVIEW FOR YOUR FILM IS**

You erase that one before you even finish typing it.

Finally, after some consideration, you decide to be honest and tell him exactly what you think.

> **The film looks amazing. Not that I expected anything less. I am so, so proud of you, Phil. More than you’ll ever know.**

You only hesitate for a moment before pressing send, though your heart hammers in your chest.

It’s just before eight at night when you send it. You try not to let yourself be disappointed when you finally drift to sleep around four in the morning and he still hasn’t texted back.

 

* * *

 

The doorbell wakes you less than five hours later. You don’t remember ordering a package, but who else but your friendly neighbourhood deliveryman would be waking you up this early in the day? You squint at your phone to check the time before rolling out of bed.

You buzz him in and dive back under the covers. You don’t feel like facing anyone today, and luckily you have the day off from work, so you curl up in your duvet and pull your pillow over your head. After a few seconds, you hear muffled knocking, but you figure he’ll give up soon and leave the package outside your door.

Only, he doesn’t. The knocking continues, loud and incessant, until you’re forced to leave your warm cocoon once again. You go to the door without bothering to put on a shirt, tongue poised to tell the deliveryman exactly where he can stick that package.

You open the door and the words die in your throat.

“Phil?”

He offers you a small smile, but that soon falters and fades. “Can…can I come in?”

You nod, thinking it strange that he would even have to ask. You move aside to let him in, and he stands in the middle of the room as you close the door behind him, looking for all the world like a lost puppy.

You circle around to face him, arms crossed over your bare chest as you wait for him to speak.

“What are you doing here?” you ask when it becomes clear that you’re going to have to start the conversation.

He shrugs. “Just thought I’d come for a visit. To surprise you?”

You’re sure even he can hear how full of shit he is. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating the end of filming?”

He gives you a blank stare.

“You know, bigshot director buys drinks for the cast and crew and—”

“I’m miserable.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you have to play the words over in your head to be sure of their meaning. He almost sounds like he is stating that it’s a little chilly out or that you’re out of cereal. You wonder how many times those words had to repeat in his head for him to say them like that.

You swallow thickly, trying to wrap your mind around the current situation. Certainly, he doesn’t mean what you think he means. He can’t be miserable for the same reason as you.

“Directing’s not everything you thought it’d be?” you guess, hoping your tone is light enough that he won’t hear the tremor in it.

“It’s great.” He shakes his head and smiles. It isn’t a nice smile; it’s tightlipped and forced, and when he speaks again, his voice drips with bitterness. “But it’s got nothing on you.” He runs a shaking hand over his face, leaving it over his mouth as he mumbles into it. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

For a second, you think he is talking about you. Then he walks towards you with open arms. “How could I be so bloody stupid?” he asks, throwing his arms around your neck and burying his face in your shoulder. You barely have time to register the dampness on your skin before he pulls away, brushing the tears off your shoulder and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Sorry.” He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

You stare at him.

“You’re, erm…probably wondering why I’m crying all over you in the middle of your lounge when I’m supposed to be on a different continent.”

You nod.

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and says the words you dreamed he would say for months.

“I want to move back.”

Your stomach sinks. “Phil, you can’t—”

“Don’t tell me not to give up on my dream or whatever it is you’re going to say. This is my decision. I don’t like my life without you in it, so I want to move back. Things can be just like they were before,” he ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you want them to. If you still even want me around.”

That old wound reopens all at once, months’ worth of scar tissue coming apart and laying your heart bare. “Of course I want you around,” you say, bringing your hands up to his face so he’ll look at you. You do your best to swallow the lump in your throat. “Always have, always will.” You shake your head. “But you can’t move back in.”

The look Phil gives you makes you want to take the words back, but you know you can’t. “Is this about my job? Because I mean it—”

“Your job is incredible, and you’re incredible at it, and you shouldn’t be so quick to give it up. But that’s not why I said you can’t come back.”

You search Phil’s face, but he looks blurry. It takes you a moment to realise that you’re crying.

“Then why?”

“Because I already signed the lease on a new flat,” you say. “I’m moving out at the end of the year.”

 

* * *

 

Phil spends a sleepless night in his old bedroom, and you spend one in your own. He catches the first flight back to L.A. the next day, and you manage not to cry when he leaves. At least you saw it coming this time.

“You look like shit,” Jeremy says when he appears in your office doorway. It’s then that you remember that it was your turn to get the coffee, but you’re glad to see that he is holding two steaming cups in his hands anyway.

“He showed up at my door yesterday,” you say without waiting for him to ask. “Unannounced.” You take one of the coffees, and Jeremy takes his seat on your desk, sipping the other. “He wants to move back in with me.”

Jeremy nearly spits coffee in your face. He covers his mouth and coughs, liquid dribbling down his chin. “Shit,” he chokes. “Well that’s good, isn’t it?”

“I’m already moving into a one-bedroom apartment at the end of the year.”

“And you need more than one?”

You glare at him, but you can’t maintain it for long. “Apparently,” you say, shoulders drooping.

“Oh, for the love of…” He sets his coffee down. “Did you really tell him he couldn’t live with you because there weren’t enough bedrooms? _Really?_ ”

“Well yeah, but—”

“And it didn’t occur to you to even try to get out of your lease? Or, hell, to offer to share your bed?”

“Look.” You point your index finger at him threateningly. He doesn’t seem threatened in the least. “Phil thinks that he can just move back and things will go back to normal. But they _can’t._ Even if we lived in the same place they couldn’t, and especially if we lived somewhere else. The magic’s gone. The era has ended. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Yeah, it probably wouldn’t be.” He shrugs. “Is that a bad thing?”

You try glaring at him again.

He stares right back, unflappable.

Finally, you sigh. “Fine. There’s another reason.”

“Mm-hm, right,” he says, sounding bored, as if he expected this. “So what’s the _real_ reason?”

“The _other_ reason,” you say, “is that working on real films is his dream job. I couldn’t let him give it up.” You almost add ‘for me’ on the end, but you manage to bite it back at the last second.

“Well,” Jeremy says, sipping his coffee and adjusting his fringe. “There’s an obvious solution here.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Jeremy smirks. “How attached are you to working here?”

 

* * *

 

London is just beginning to fill with snow when you leave it. L.A., however, is sunny and warm.

You take a cab to your hotel and pass out the second you hit the sheets. It might only be six in the afternoon here, but it’s two in the morning London time, and you don’t want to take the chance that you’ll be too nervous to sleep later.

You need all the rest you can get for tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

You don’t plan to meet him there. Not exactly. You just happen to know that he works across the street from this particular Starbucks, and you happen to know him.

(You also happen to spend nearly two hours there, buying coffee after coffee before remembering that you should probably switch to decaf for the sake of your nerves, but that’s beside the point).

It’s five minutes until ten, almost time for you to leave, when you spot a familiar auburn quiff above the heads of the other patrons. Your leg bounces nervously as you debate going up to him now. You chose a table close to the register so that he would be sure to see you by the time he reached the end of the line, but now you’re worried that his obliviousness might ruin your plans.

Okay, so maybe you were lying to yourself before.

You end up staying put. Sure enough, right after he receives his card back from the cashier, he turns towards your table. His jaw drops open. He sputters a few times before you hear an astonished “ _Dan?_ ”

You smirk before opening your mouth to say, “Fancy seating you here.”

He lowers his eyebrows in confusion.

You think back on your words. Your hands come up to cover your face. “Wait, no. Shit. I messed up. I meant to say ‘seeing.’ Or ‘meeting.’ I couldn’t decide which one and it came out all wrong and I just…” You peek at him from between your fingers. “Can I try again?”

“Caramel macchiato for Phil!” the barista calls.

Phil isn’t making any move to get his drink. He isn’t making any move at all. He’s just standing there, staring at you.

You go to the counter to get his drink for him. He continues to gape as you place it in his hand and make sure his fingers are curled securely around the cup before letting go.

“So,” you say, fiddling with your fringe, “you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.” You find yourself smiling at the memory of him saying almost the same thing to you little more than a week ago.

He nods.

“Well, er…” You glance at your watch. “You see, the thing is, I actually have to go soon. Because…’cause I sort of have…a job interview?” You don’t mean for it to come out sounding like a question. Must be your nerves again. You really shouldn’t have had so much coffee. “I was going to be all cool and nonchalant about it. Like, ‘Oh, I’m not here because of you. Just on my way to an interview. Don’t mind me.’ But I, erm, I guess I messed that up too, huh?”

Phil doesn’t look as enthused as you had hoped. “You lost your job?” he asks, sounding like it’s the worst news he has heard in some time.

“I’ve given them my three-weeks’ notice,” you correct. “I’m actually flying back out tomorrow. But, in the meantime, I have four different job interviews to get to today, so—”

“But what about your new flat?” He’s speaking too loudly. People are starting to notice.

You swallow nervously. “I got out of the lease. As of the end of the year, I’m technically homeless. Unless…” You rub the back of your neck, heart pounding in your chest.

He stares at you a moment longer. Then he shakes his head. “You absolute, total, complete and utter moron,” he says as he takes a step forward and wraps his arms around you. He is still clutching the coffee in one hand, and a little spills on your tie, but you don’t care.

“Does that mean you’ll keep me off the scary American streets?” you ask, hugging back.

“Only if you promise to tell me next time you’re thinking of doing something stupid. You shouldn’t have quit the radio, Dan. It was your dream.”

“It really wasn’t,” you say, and it’s the truth. “It was a cool job, but it stopped being my dream a long time ago.”

“Why’s that?”

You pull back to look him in the eye, but you keep your arms around his waist. “Do I really have to say it?”

Phil chuckles. “Not if you don’t want to.”

You consider spelling it out for him, but then you think to check your watch again. Seven past. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to be at an interview soon.”

“Go,” he says and then kisses your cheek.

You feel your face grow warm. “What was that for?”

“Luck,” he says, grinning. He grips your shoulders and turns you around. “Now get out of here. And see if you can cancel your reservation at whatever hotel you planned on staying at tonight. You don’t need it.”

 

* * *

 

You show up at your first interview with a stained tie, a red face, and a goofy grin.

You couldn’t care less.

 

* * *

 

“And don’t get your hopes _too_ high. It might be awful.”

“It won’t be,” you say, retying Phil’s bowtie for the fourth time. You finally give up and decide it will just have to be slightly crooked.

“But what if—”

“Phil.” You place a quick kiss on his lips to shut him up. “Your film is going to be incredible. And even if it somehow isn’t the best thing I’ve seen all year, you know I’ll still be proud of you, right?”

“It isn’t _my_ film,” he points out, frowning. “Lots of people worked on it. And it’s not like it has a lot to live up to; the year has barely started.” He sighs. “But yeah, I know.”

“Good,” you say, and you kiss him again. “Now let’s get going. A director can’t be late for his own premiere.”

 

* * *

 

Your phone buzzes on the way to the premiere.

> **_So you get to see the movie a whole week before it shows in regular theaters??? Unfair :(_ **

You chuckle. Phil raises his eyebrows, and you tilt your screen to show him the text.

“The infamous Jeremy?” he asks.

“The one and only.”

“Tell him I said thank you.”

“For what?”

Phil gives you a withering look.

“Alright, I admit it. I was playing dumb.”

You turn your attention back to your phone.

> **Phil says hi**

Jeremy responds with a row of exclamation points and several crying emojis.

> **I thought you were MY biggest fan**

Jeremy replies so quickly that you wonder how he can type that fast.

> **_That was before I met you. Besides phils been on the radio AND hes a director_ **

You change the subject.

> **Speaking of radio, how are things at the station**
> 
> **_Great! Since you left theyve been shuffling positions and GUESS WHO GOT A PROMOTION_ **
> 
> **Glad my absence could bring about your own personal gain**
> 
> **_Same!_ **

And then, a second later:

> **_I kinda miss you tho :/ london’s not the same without ur scroogeyness_ **
> 
> **I never said i hated christmas**
> 
> **_Bet you did. The snow probably reminded you of phil’s skin and made you sad_ **
> 
> **Shut up you little twerp**
> 
> **_See!!!!! Even when ur with phil ur a grumpy old man_ **

You roll your eyes and decide not to reply.

As the car approaches the theatre, your phone buzzes again.

> **_Jokes aside, im glad you and phil got ur happily ever after_ **

Then:

> **_Assuming ur actually going to hold onto what you have this time and not let ur dumb emotional constipation get in the way again_ **

You almost respond with something sarcastic, but then Phil squeezes your hand.

“We’re here,” he says. He sounds nervous but excited.

You squeeze his hand back as you type your response.

> **That’s the plan.**

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit I've been working on this story on and off for so long. Like since The Reject was just a teeny tiny baby fic with only one or two chapters posted. I thought it'd never be done BUT LOOK HERE IT IS. I know it's super angsty but I hope you guys liked it. My next fic won't be so serious (it's gonna be super dumb and full of lame bants and impossible things and Shenanigans but idk I think it will be fun).


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